To BLT
by J. Charelle
Summary: Sometimes we know what we're looking for, we just...mislabel it. Rated up for slight language. *Was* complete, but it's turning into a rarely-updated verse.
1. To: BLT

**Yes, I know I'm supposed to be working on Kind of Lighter and Brighter Somehow, but I hit a word wall on it, work is about to literally kick my ass, and I got smacked in the face with the idea of food-triggered Faberry fluff. Forgive me? Especially because I'm about 99.999999999% positive I don't follow common fanon for this particular pairing and I do not give a damn.**

**I'm pretty sure this is confusing as all get out, but I was too lazy to bother people with beta-ing it and it's really just me being an idiot with excessive italics, super slippery point of view shifts, and really cheesy food clichés. Like, I feel like I need an insulin shot. Or to **_**be**_** shot for unleashing this on the internet. Anyway. Reviews are appreciated, ConCrit or otherwise.**

**Don't own Glee. It'd be even worse if I was in charge of it, I promise…**

If Rachel had known going into making a family that things would get crazy—like, had even an _inkling_ that the life she shared with Quinn would be absolutely turned on its ear—she would have kindly declined the offer made at the Fertility clinic. And then possibly have lectured on the importance of a child-free life for the burgeoning Broadway star and her ruthless lawyer girlfriend-practically-fiancée.

There would have been no trips to the gynecologist.

No inspecting the gene pools of their male friends.

No double checking with Quinn, making sure she could handle being the birth mother after Beth all those years ago, before spending months working through microscopic issues with a relationship therapist. No long, awkward conversations with past affairs and old boyfriends over dinners where everyone just wanted to remember the New Directions as the shining light of their high school memories. No shouting matches in the living room because _it's not like we're forgetting; we're big girls—we love each other and we can handle this. Now which one of you gentlemen has sperm to spare?_

No re-inspecting the gene pools of their male friends after they all agreed to be the baby daddy.

There _definitely_ would have been no rushed, late-night trips to the corner mart for lube and dirty magazines because Quinn was ovulating and they needed the second half of their baby's genetic makeup _right the fuck_ _now, dammit._

There would have been no waiting, no morning sickness that got written off as bad food from the Thai place. No frantic imbibing of water and caffeinated drinks so they could pee on the stick and wait some more. No weight gain, stretch marks, mood swings, swollen feet, and doctor bills, multivitamins that made hair grow in places it really had no business growing. No cravings.

The late-night cravings, Rachel could say upon looking back, were probably the worst. Frantic pleas in the dead of night for Rachel to rush out and get a peanut butter and caper sandwich or a funnel cake with sorghum molasses and raw yam, and her sleepy demands of _where am I going to find capers at two in the morning, Quinn?_

Then there were the day cravings, which were exponentially more manageable: pizza with extra onions and olives; Chinese; chicken parmesan _from that one restaurant we went to when your dads came to town for your graduation; do you remember, Star?_; Chicken pot pie with extra 'pie' , easy on the 'chicken pot'.

(_So a pie crust with chicken gravy,_ Rachel had clarified—then fled the apartment because the Pregnant One threatened to throw out their collection of kid-friendly, Broadway-inspired lullabies if she didn't get a move on.)

And then there was one craving that never faded—the need for a perfect BLT. Rachel couldn't understand how one woman could sit and eat sandwich after sandwich made up of starch, mushy tomato, nutritionally useless lettuce and pig muscle, but Quinn was adamant that the perfect one was out there somewhere, and Rachel's job as the non-carrying mother-to-be was to find it.

As the non-carrying, very vegan mother-to-be, there were understandably some issues. She had to rely on word of mouth, travelling to the depths of the five boroughs looking for that godforsaken sandwich. Simply interviewing people on where they ordered their food presented many lives for Rachel to inspect, and she came away from each encounter with another anecdote, one more memory to stow in her bag of sense-recall acting tricks. They also gave plenty of entertainment whenever she could present the hard-earned BLT to Quinn, who jokingly dubbed Rachel's tales 'The BLT Diaries'; she giggled her way through the most outrageous stories before showing her gratitude in ways best described in another setting, but _very_ appreciated by one Rachel Barbara Berry, thank you very much.

Rachel's best memory from her BLT Diaries was probably finding the deli recommended to her by a cab driver (via a string of relatives and service workers), wherein she had to call on the aid of several citizens who drug her to what she was led to believe was a karaoke bar. Her worst memory from the BLT diaries was the moment the karaoke bar was busted for covering for a prostitution ring. She nearly got arrested before being pointed in the right direction by some very confused policemen.

That sandwich was missing some particular something that couldn't _quite_ be identified; Quinn deemed it close to perfect, but it wasn't exactly. Rachel got a consolation kiss on the cheek, a twenty dollar bill to make up for some of the cab fare, and a _better luck next time, Star_.

No, there wouldn't have been run-ins with law enforcement if Rachel declined becoming a mother. Life would have continued the way it had since she and Quinn came to their senses—Rachel in rehearsal, Quinn researching cases and assisting the partnered lawyers at her firm. Rachel in performance, Quinn coming to see as many as she could and taking her Star out to dinner afterwards. Quinn spending hours hunched over the kitchen table organizing the research for a trial, Rachel bringing her herbal tea with organic sweeteners until she finally dragged her off to bed. Things would have been quiet, predictable.

But there wouldn't have been the quiet affirmations of simply being young and in love. No Saturday mornings watching Quinn stroke her growing belly absentmindedly as she watched the news. No delighted smiles the first time the baby kicked, no tears of joy when the baby was promoted from an _it _to a _she_. Stolen lunch breaks spent shopping for bassinets and clothes would not have existed. Cleaning out the closet-turned-nursery and finding the trinkets they kept when they first started dating would have been cause for a slight pause; not the full-out crying jag down memory lane started by an emotional Quinn that ended in a very passionate reaffirmation of the passion they still shared.

On top of reestablishing passions, they would have never found the perfect BLT.

It happened early on a Monday morning; the stage of Rachel's show was dark and Quinn was far enough along the firm demanded she finally start her maternity leave. They planned a lazy day, turning off their alarm clocks, silencing their phones; a natural wake-up, breakfast at their favorite café, and time to simply enjoy each other (and the currently unnamed Baby Girl taking up residence in Quinn's comically large stomach) before the little one arrived and they had to return to a new reality.

The slow wakeup was quickly ruined by a fetus demonstrating moves she learned from the kickboxing DVDs Quinn used before she got too pregnant; the active baby jarred Quinn's bladder, and her rolling to the edge of the bed before she had an accident jolted Rachel out of sleep. Both awake, Quinn out of discomfort and Rachel out of a sense of duty, they turned to their tiny kitchen to make their breakfasts. Out of habit Quinn turned to the coffee maker; Rachel gathered the first ingredients her hands fell on and hoped she would be able to make an edible breakfast out of them. It wasn't until she grabbed a skillet and started cooking that she realized what she grabbed: tofu bacon, romaine lettuce, heirloom tomato.

She groaned, and Quinn looked over to grin sleepily. Rachel grumbled Quinn's quest was ruining her culinary skills and she grinned wider, because she knew Rachel didn't mind. She couldn't mind, if she spent hours each week hunting down every little thing Quinn asked for, uncomplaining as she gained sympathy baby weight.

Admittedly, it had taken Rachel a while to get used to the idea of being responsible for another life; the same thing had happened when she and Quinn first got together. The adjusting was hard for Rachel; she was used to being the center of her own very loud and driven universe after constantly being rejected, and shifting her focus to Quinn was a long and arduous undertaking that paid off in college. They were well-matched. Quinn knew just what to say to make Rachel come off her high horse, and Rachel could stop a full out Quinn rebellion with a simple look. They knew what made the other tick, how much of everything was too much, why they picked the goals they did. They fought, yes, but what couple didn't? And they always worked their problems out; usually through an argument over the coffee table that ended in either tears or actions befitting another tale, but occasionally via relatively unplanned bouts of singing on the fire escape when Rachel was feeling particularly dramatic.

Quinn was usually standing on the ground, desperately trying to shut Rachel up after being thrown out of the apartment during the musical conflict resolution sessions.

But for all the citations for disturbing the peace, neither of them would change any of the moments they shared together, Quinn mused as she watched Rachel cook the bacon. She was lit softly from the side as the sun rose sleepily in the New York sky, serene smile in place, humming a piece of something from her show. As quietly as she could, Quinn came behind her, creating a cocoon of warmth for the baby as she snuggled into Rachel's back. Whenever she was feeing low, merely being around the (admittedly tiny) woman could make anything better. It was something Quinn couldn't explain, this need to keep Rachel nearby, but it was happening more and more as they neared the baby's due date, but she pulled together justifications: Rachel had gone from extremely loud, self-centered glee club terror to the very reason Quinn strove to be a better person over the course of the last decade and it only made sense to keep your inspirations close, didn't it?

_What's this for?_

_Everything. Nothing. Bacon._

_Well, I don't know how much you're actually going to like _this_ bacon, since it isn't straight from the pig—_

_Marry me._

A shocked pause, tofu sizzling loudly in the pan while Quinn waited for an eternity.

_I—Quinn, what?_

_Well, we're going into this a little backwards, don't you think? Moving in together, having a baby…_

A separation, Rachel moving back to stare into Quinn's face with a look honed from too many nights out with Kurt. It was calculating, analyzing, taking in everything Quinn wanted to say and couldn't quite put into words. Quinn flushed, and Rachel giggled.

_I think it's because I'm willing to feed you terrible foods when you say they're for the baby._

_No._

_Then it's because I'm bound to be breathtakingly famous one day and you want in on the perks that come with it._

_No._

_Because I'm fantastic in bed and you want the cow all to yourself?_

_What?_

_You know, why buy the cow when you can get the milk—_

_Did you really just—no, Rachel. No._

_Then why?_

Another pause. Deep breath, stalling.

_Because I found my perfect BLT in the choir room of McKinley back in sophomore year._

_You found a sandwich in the choir room that changed your life? Do we need to talk about not picking up random food and eating it, Quinn?_

_Quit teasing. I meant I found a person I could call baby—_

_But you don't call me baby, you call me St—_

_Star, I know. Please. I _could_ call you baby, if I wanted to. If I was writing blues for you, you'd be 'my baby'. We're totally each other's babies. And we're having a baby. So. I found my Bs. That I could love—that I _do _love. L. Both right now and when both my Bs are running around this apartment causing drama while I'm trying to prepare for a major case in a few years. And I T—treasure you and everything you are, even when you drive me insane with the singing and monologue rehearsals. And when you let my fake bacon burn._

Mad scramble to take the food from the fire, to let Rachel get her thoughts in order, and for Quinn to calm the little one. And then a return to the confession.

_And even though I found my BLTs, and everyone who matters knows it, it only makes sense to do it legally, you know? So that everybody knows—_

_That I'm a sandwich._

_Rachel._

Another laugh, Rachel spinning to face Quinn, placing feather-light kisses over the baby, moving up to Quinn's lips.

_That has got to be the strangest engagement speech anyone has ever given. But…I guess it makes sense. I found perfect BLT, too._

_It was stupid, wasn't it? I shouldn't have said anything, especially if you're saying no—wait, what?_

_My baby to love and treasure. I met it back in high school too, but it took me a long time to realize it. And my sandwich is a paralegal, you know? She'd go on and on about how a license makes everything official, and wouldn't be rescindable if she ever got one. So I would love to let everyone know that I have a B to LT. And then I'll have a combo, I guess. When the second one comes along._

And right there, on a balmy Monday morning, with tofu bacon smoldering in the pan, lettuce wilting in a stray patch of sunlight with the heirloom tomato sweating beside it, Quinn's internal craving that never faded grew, as matters of the heart often do. It swelled into something not unlike completion; it captured her heart in anticipation, shimmering brightly like elation.


	2. The PowerPoint

**Oops, more Faberry stuff. **

**I've decided this 'verse is canon up to the end of season 3; things (obviously) take a different turn, and I may go back and fill in what I think happened. It's going to be a series of one-shotty pieces that can be read in the order I write them or chronologically (I'll give an order as more show up). Know for now that this piece is about 8 months before "To: BLT" on my grand timeline of things.**

**Dunno if it's fluff or not, but here you go!**

It had been a casual suggestion while they were looking over their options. If they weren't comfortable selecting from a sperm bank, find a biologically-male friend who would be willing to get them what they needed.

They had laughed it off at first, but after seeing the anonymity behind the catalog of donors, they decided to ask their friends to do them this massive favor. And they had all agreed, after quite a bit of convincing and a New Directions-styled Conflict/resolution session.

So Quinn and Rachel had nine semen-bearing options to choose from: Kurt, Blaine, Finn, Puck, Artie, Mike, Sam, Rory, Joe. It should have been simple; don't pick from the men who were married (Artie, Mike, technically Kurt and Blaine) and the men likely to have insanity running rampant in their gene pools (Puck, and very probably Finn), and they would have had three to choose from.

But of course Rachel turned it into one of her overly complicated near-debacles. It was one of the ways she helped herself cope with Big Life decisions, one she picked up from Kurt.

Now that Quinn took a second to think about it, Rachel developed a lot of her habits because of her best friend. Some of them were good (The year Rachel stopped buying wildlife sweaters in favor of the more fashionable things she and Kurt found on sale was an excellent year), some tolerable (Kurt's trademark bitch glare just didn't translate as well on a tiny Jewish woman, but Quinn had glares of her own and could give as good as she got), and some beyond frustrating.

One of the more unacceptable behaviors was the need to organize everything. The apartment was meticulous, everything labeled and in its own special place—this was the part Rachel got from Kurt, which was fine—but the day Rachel moved organizing her decision making process to the same level as her storage methods, Quinn decided there was a problem.

For Rachel to make any Big Life Decision, she had to categorize each and every new or available option after taking all the conceivable facets and investigating them to death. It was a painstaking process that tended to stress her out more than any rehearsal ever could; the times Rachel was delineating a choice were the times her and Quinn's fights ended with Rachel doing A Cappella karaoke on the fire escape to a locked-out Quinn, followed swiftly by a noise citation from the police.

Needless to say, Rachel didn't handle very big choices very well, and Quinn wasn't sure if her newfound method for coping was necessarily helping.

Quinn was a paralegal. She made her living researching, coming up with ways to interpret evidence for the attorneys in her office; she could understand making sure your facts were straight before presenting information or making an informed decision. There was an art, a beauty to a well-investigated case, keeping it stored neatly in binders and leaving paper-and-stickpin trails across bulletin boards. But Quinn was willing to keep her appreciation for research methods at work unless it was absolutely necessary and to talk through her problems with Rachel, or maybe Santana if the problem involved Rachel.

Rachel was different. Her decisions had grown dependent on organizing her thoughts so she could navigate them easier. In a way, Quinn knew it made sense.

But coming home to stacks of lists, photographs hanging from the available space on the already-cramped walls, and a freaking _projector and screen_ was a bit much, even for her.

"Star?" Quinn called as she let herself into the apartment, confused at the organized explosion of paper in the living room.

Rachel came bustling in from the kitchenette carrying a glass of wine for Quinn.

"Oh good, you're home!"

"Yes, I am. Now would you care to tell me why there are headshots of the New Directions guys all over our walls?"

"I think it's time we made a decision."

"Already?"

"It's been almost a year since we started looking at legalities, Quinn!" she handed Quinn the glass and bustled them over to the sofa. "It'd be a good idea to know what to expect from whoever we pick once we get everything going."

Rachel was right. Quinn _had_ sprung the question of starting a family in January. But she had expected to need to give Rachel firm nudges into picking a biological father; coming home to a full-out presentation listing Rachel's preferences for the baby's father threw Quinn just slightly off-balance.

But it also meant Rachel was more behind the idea of parenthood than she had been New Year's, which meant they were really planning on sticking together for the long haul. Quinn took a tiny sip as she watched Rachel struggle with the projector. She thought while Rachel poked at the power button, biting her lip in concentration as the machine refused to turn on. It had been an interesting ride for the tow of them; between Rachel's personality, Quinn's insecurities, and both of their professions, it seemed like they could be the edge of ending every couple of months. But they stuck it out, knowing there was a spark in the other woman they were drawn to; they couldn't escape even if they wanted.

After a while, Rachel got on her hands and knees to follow the cords to where she plugged everything in. Inadvertently, she gave Quinn a very nice, unobstructed view of her assets, as they were; Quinn could think of a couple of ways to pass the time that would be more entertaining than debating their high school friends and their fertility rates.

So if Quinn stealthily made her way over to Rachel and admired the goods, maybe giving them enough of a fondle that Rachel got distracted, was it really her fault?

It couldn't have been, she decided as she guided Rachel slowly to their bedroom. After all, the PowerPoint would still be waiting for them whenever they finished.

* * *

"Kurt."

This situation was even more strange than the initial encounter. They were in the living room, Quinn sprawled on the sofa wrapped solely in the bed's fitted sheet. Rachel draped herself over the back of the couch as she dangled pictures where Quinn could see both the photograph and the projector screen.

Never in a million years had Quinn ever imagined herself lying naked on a sectional after sex with her very female partner, debating which of her old glee club members would father her child.

"Kurt's your best friend. Do we really want him to feel he has to like us any more than he already does?"

"It's not like he'd be paying child support or taking the baby out to do things for father-kid bonding. Unless he wanted to. I would be fine with that, even though he'd have to understand that while he isn't legally the parent—"

"I don't know, Star…"

"I mean, he is a very pretty man…but how well do his features and yours blend?"

"Does it matter what the baby looks like? I mean really?"

"No! No, of course not. Well, not to me. But to the talent agencies…"

"We haven't even picked a father yet and you're already planning the kid's rise to stardom."

"…We can talk about that later, I guess. So we're tabling Kurt for the moment. Finn."

Absolutely out of the question. Quinn was beginning to get tired of the brainstorming, actually. They'd run through nearly all the New Directions men and hadn't reached an agreement. At this point, she was ready to call it a night and come back to it when Rachel wasn't as determined to have large photos of the men in question staring at her like they knew exactly what wasn't under her sheet.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Star, really?"

"I don't believe I follow you, Quinn. Finn was athletic, popular in high school, moderately good looking, and he's doing okay for himself now; what isn't there to like?"

"The fact that it takes him three times longer than the average banana slug to figure out when something's wrong –even longer if he has to fix it. If there's even a chance that amount of cluelessness being genetic I want it nowhere near my ovaries, thanks."

"Point taken. Puck? Now, I know he'd be a long shot, given past baby situations, but since they all did volunteer their services, such as they are…and his personality would be a good one for anyone to pick up; within limits of course…"

Quinn heaved a sigh. She had spent the better part of six years enduring Puck's "personality", and didn't want the option of raising a miniature one for eighteen years. She stood and moved to the kitchen to start dinner.

"I'm taking your leaving as a 'no', then…"

"Quinn?"

"Can we think about it later, Star? I need time to think over everything we went over, you know?" she called as she rooted around in the refrigerator.

Rachel padded into the kitchen after Quinn. She leaned against the fridge door and pouted as Quinn came back up with an armful of greens.

"And you worked really hard on your PowerPoint, I know." She pecked Rachel's bottom lip chastely before nudging the door closed. "But I think we need to wait a little while and just…think about it. I'm sure we'll pick the right guy eventually. So for right now, we're going to make dinner, talk about what we did during the day, and maybe watch a movie."

Rachel pulled a knife from the block came over to help. "I just wanted us to make a decision tonight."

"We've waited this long, right?"

Rachel nodded.

"So we can wait a little longer." Quinn did her best to console. "Because if we had picked tonight, I would have agreed with whatever you were deciding just to avoid another Berry-styled argument."

Rachel squawked indignantly and smacked her with the Bok Choy while Quinn chortled.


End file.
